


The Love Song of S. Ray Kowalski

by metaphoracle



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, T.S. Eliot - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-03
Updated: 2006-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:26:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaphoracle/pseuds/metaphoracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pastiche/mashup/remix of T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," told from the POV of RayK. Originally posted on DS Flashfiction</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love Song of S. Ray Kowalski

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my beta AshKitty, who read and critiqued this even without knowing the canon.

_Llorando_  
De cara a la pared  
Se para la ciudad  
Llorando  
Y no hay más,  
Muero quizás  
Ha! Dónde estás  
Soñando  
De cara a la pared  
Se quema la ciudad  
Soñando  
Sin respirar  
Te quiero amor  
Te quiero amor  
Rezando  
De cara a la pared  
Se hunde la ciudad  
Rezando  
Santa María  
Santa María  
Santa María  
Muriendo

Let's just go then, you and me,  
Where the northern lights fight it out above us  
Like boxers duking it out in a ring;  
Let's just go, where there are no streets  
Just us freaks  
And restless nights in tents  
And spaghetti cooked over an open fire:  
Following the hand of this Franklin guy  
Of dubious intent  
To lead you to an overwhelming question...  
C'mon, don't ask, "What is it?"  
Let's just go and fuckin' --

In Kugluktuk the people come and go  
Talking of Pierre Trudeau.

The dumb wolf-dog that rubs his back against my sleeping bag,  
The dumb wolf-dog that rubs his muzzle against my shoulders  
Licked his tongue into the corners of my ears,  
Lingered on the hollow of my neck,  
Let snow from the roof fall on his back  
And seeing that it was a soft October night,  
Curled at my feet, and fell asleep.

And, you know, there's gonna be time  
For the dumb wolf-dog that walks next to the sled,  
Rubbing his back on the damn tent-poles;  
There's gonna be time, there's gonna be time  
To prepare a smile for the people we don't meet;  
There's gonna be time to forget murder and hate  
And time for honest work and days with hands  
That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
Time for you and time for me,  
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  
And for a hundred visions and revisions  
Before I choke down pemmican and tea.

In Kugluktuk the people come and go  
Talking of Pierre Trudeau.

And, you know, there will be time  
To wonder, "Do I Dare?" and "Do I dare?"  
Time to look at the mirror and stare  
At the receding hairline I know is there  
[You will say: "It's full-bodied and bushy, Ray."]  
My winter coat, my collar turned up firmly to the chin,  
My layers of sweaters and sweat shirts and underwear  
[You will say: "It's because you lack a layer of subcutaneous fat."]  
Do I dare  
Disturb the universe?  
In a minute there is time  
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Cuz I've known them all already, known them all:--  
I've known the nights, days, afternoons,  
I've measured out my life with Smarties and coffee spoons;  
I know the sound of dying on the street  
Beneath the music from a nearby club  
So how should I presume?

And I've known the eyes already, known them all--  
The eyes that fix me in a calculated gaze,  
And when I'm begging for it, sprawling, wet with sin,  
When I'm pinned and wriggling on the wall  
Then how should I begin  
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?  
And how should I presume?

And I've known the arms already, known them all--  
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare  
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]  
Is it the lack of a dress  
That makes me such a mess?  
Arms that lay on a table, so soft they make my skin crawl.  
And then should I presume?  
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I've gone at night through lonely streets  
And watched the smoke that rises from cigarettes  
Of lonely men in t-shirts, leaning against bricks?

I shoulda been a contender  
Dancing my way around rings, not floors.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!  
Smoothed by long fingers,  
Asleep…tired…or it …uh…lingers,  
Stretched on the ground, with you here next to me.  
Should I, after tea and meat and ice  
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?  
Cuz though I've wept and starved, wept and begged,  
Though I've seen my head [not bald like Vecchio] brought in on a platter,  
I'm no profit—and it's no big deal;  
I've seen the moment of my greatness flicker,  
And I've seen the Bookman take my wife, and snicker,  
And, no joke, I was afraid.

And it would've been worth it, after all,  
After the snow, the pemmican, the tea,  
Among the Inuit, and some talk of you and me,  
It would've been worthwhile,  
To've bitten it off with a smile,  
To've squeezed the universe into a ball  
To roll it towards some d-u-m question,  
To say: "I'm Houdini, back from the dead,  
C'mon I'll tell you—I'm gonna tell you all"—  
If he, setting a pillow by his head,  
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.  
That is not it, at all."

And it would've been worth it, after all,  
It would've been worthwhile,  
After the sunsets and the dog sleds and the icy streets,  
After the stories, after the tea, after the boots that leave snow prints on the floor—  
And this, and so much more?—  
It's impossible to say just what I mean!  
But it's like  
It would've been worthwhile  
If he, fluffing a pillow or folding a sheet,  
And turning to the window, should say:  
"That is not it at all,  
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Steve McQueen, nor was meant to be;  
I'm a cop, gone undercover as someone else  
To save a life, solve a case or two,  
Partner the Mountie, the freak (but my freak),  
Differential, glad to be of use,  
Polite, cautious, and meticulous;  
Full of lots of words, but a bit obtuse;  
At times, you know, almost ridiculous--  
Almost, at times, a fool.

I grow cold... I grow cold...  
I'm gonna wear these long johns til they grow mold.

Am I gonna spike my hair? Do I dare eat caribou?  
I'm gonna wear red union suits and walk on snowshoes.  
I've heard the Mounties singing, "When I'm calling you--"

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I've seen them riding horseback on the street  
A sea of red coats and brown hats  
When the wind blows the snow across their backs.

We've made our northwest passage to the sea  
By sled dogs dusted by snowflakes, white and brown  
Til human voices wake us, and we drown.


End file.
